The Terminal

“There’s nowhere more public than an airport—and nowhere lonelier to be hunted.”

The terminal unfurled before me like a shimmering mirage—bright, modern, and deceptively vast. Polished glass walls reflected the relentless South Australian sun, amplifying the light into dazzling white glare, while the gleaming terrazzo floors stretched ahead in gentle curves that offered no obvious destination—just movement for movement’s sake.

Normally, Adelaide Airport’s recently renovated terminal would have inspired quiet admiration. It was clean, expansive, an architectural celebration of openness. But today, it felt like a hunting ground.

And I was being hunted.

The crowd surged around me in chaotic fluidity—jostling families dragging children and mismatched luggage, sleek business types moving with precision, dazed tourists hesitating in the dead centre of walkways. The entire terminal teemed with the hurried energy of lives in transit, each person moving toward somewhere or someone, utterly absorbed in their own selfish momentum. It should have offered excellent cover. Instead, it only made me feel more exposed.

I moved carefully but quickly, my posture deliberately closed, head lowered, shoulders tight with feigned fatigue. My backpack shifted with every step, slapping lightly against the small of my back. It had never felt heavier, the strap digging into the flesh of my shoulder with the sharp insistence of guilt and consequence.

The voices were everywhere. A babble of overlapping languages and local accents rose in waves and eddies, punctuated by the frequent ding of the intercom and the dispassionate voice of airport staff making routine announcements—boarding calls, gate changes, reminders to not leave baggage unattended. The irony of that last one wasn't lost on me.

Unattended baggage. Or more precisely, deliberately hidden in another dimension baggage.

And yet, every sound seemed layered with menace, as if each word could be turned sideways and reveal a hidden warning encoded beneath. I could no longer process language as neutral. Every overheard sentence felt like an accusation. Every laugh had the tone of mockery.

The smell of overworked air conditioning mingled unpleasantly with scorched metal and the yeasty aroma of fast food outlets. Somewhere close by, the burnt tang of coffee lingered thick in the air—bitter, stale, unforgiving. It clung to the back of my throat like punishment. Even the recycled air felt heavy with judgement.

Stay calm. Keep walking. Eyes down. Don’t engage.

I slipped past a cluster of noisy children wrestling over a luggage trolley, their mother too distracted by a loudly crackling phone call to intervene. One of the boys threw a stuffed koala across the walkway, and it bounced off my shin before skittering across the polished floor. I muttered a breathless “Sorry” without stopping, too afraid of breaking stride.

A second later, a woman in a sharp navy suit barrelled past me from the opposite direction, her phone clamped to her ear, heels ticking across the tiles like a metronome. I flinched. Dark hair. Fast pace. For one disorienting second I was sure it was her. My breath caught in my throat like a fishhook.

But it wasn’t.

Still, the reaction rattled me—how quickly fear could take root in something as minor as a silhouette. My peripheral vision, sharpened by adrenaline, caught every flicker of movement. Every quick turn of a head. Every unzipped handbag or shifting shoulder strap. Each face I passed became a potential witness. Each step forward felt like trespassing deeper into some invisible perimeter I hadn’t meant to cross.

Was she behind me? Had she seen me leave the aircraft? Had she managed to push through the bottleneck of bodies and now, even now, was steadily closing the gap?

The thought gripped me with such sudden force that I nearly turned around on instinct. But I didn’t. Instead, I kept moving, pulse hammering against the walls of my throat like a drumbeat signalling retreat.

I passed beneath a sweeping architectural arch of steel beams, each rib-like curve overhead casting long geometric shadows across the floor. The building’s celebrated openness, its carefully crafted sense of transparency, now made me feel like an insect crawling beneath a glass dome—visible from every angle, the illusion of freedom shattered by the awareness that I was being observed.

You’re imagining it. You’re being irrational. Just get to the exit.

I spotted the escalator ahead—leading down to the baggage claim and transport hub. The mechanical groan of its motion hummed in my ears as I approached, each step toward it laced with the bone-deep certainty that I couldn’t afford to slow down.

I slid into the gap between two oblivious travellers—a middle-aged couple arguing softly over parking rates—and descended, carried gently downward into the next layer of this labyrinthine arena. My hand rested lightly on the rubber rail, though I wasn’t certain whether for balance or reassurance. The smell of hot concrete rose through the grates as we dropped toward ground level, mingling with the faint scent of diesel from idling taxis and the faint antiseptic undertone of industrial cleaner.

And still, the thought wouldn’t leave me.

What if she’s already here?

What if she’s waiting?

I reached the bottom and stepped off smoothly, folding immediately back into the flow of foot traffic without pause. My eyes flicked left, then right, scanning the chaos of baggage carousels, the crowds forming in semicircles around them, the small collection of cardboard signs held aloft by indifferent airport drivers.

No sign of her. No dark ponytail. No narrowed eyes.

But I knew better now than to feel relieved.

I was a moving target in a place that no longer felt neutral, and the longer I remained inside it, the more dangerous that truth became.

The backpack thudded rhythmically against my spine as I walked—its seemingly innocuous weight now loaded with implication, as if it pulsed with its own awareness of what it carried. Guilt, secrecy... and something deeper. Something I hadn’t yet named, but which was steadily growing heavier with each step.

I wasn’t just running from her anymore.

I was running toward something far more dangerous.

I dipped my head even lower, chin nearly brushing my collarbone, and drew out my phone like a talisman—clutched tight in my slick, trembling palm. It glowed unnaturally bright in the terminal’s cold, fluorescent lighting, a flickering beacon that threatened to betray my presence with every illuminated pixel. The familiar contact photo of Josh filled the screen—a casual snapshot from our last camping trip, taken under an ironbark canopy long before either of us had heard of Portal Keys or dimensional thresholds or mysterious women who vanished mid-flight.

I hesitated only a moment, thumb hovering, then tapped the call icon with the same kind of desperate resolve one might use to slam a red emergency button under glass.

One ring.

Two.

Then three, four—each tone echoing impossibly loud inside my skull, reverberating through the rest of my body like sonar. No answer. Just the mechanical chime of digital distance. The longer it rang, the worse it felt—less like calling for help and more like sending a signal into a vacuum.

I passed a newsagent kiosk whose bright lights were searing against my wine-dulled vision. Rows of tabloid headlines screamed across the paper racks in bold caps, but they blurred together in a chaotic wash of black and white. I couldn’t focus. It all looked like warning signs written in a code I didn’t know how to read.

"Pick up, for God’s sake," I muttered, breath shallow and ragged. My voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges, raw with urgency. The words emerged harsh and cracked like they didn’t belong to me. A young woman pushing a pram wheeled cautiously around me, throwing a wary glance in my direction—the kind of glance people save for unstable strangers who might suddenly start shouting or sobbing without warning.

Then the ringing cut out. Not because Josh had answered, but because his voicemail had.

"This is Josh. Leave a message."

The calmness in his voice felt like a slap.

I stabbed at the end call button, jamming the phone back into my pocket with more force than I intended. The motion jarred my elbow and nearly knocked the backpack strap loose, and I had to pause, fumbling awkwardly to adjust it. The movement felt too sudden. Too conspicuous. I caught the eye of a nearby airport security guard—mid-thirties, broad-shouldered, leaning against a pillar with his arms folded loosely across his navy polo. His gaze flicked toward me, faintly registering. A nothing-look. A passing assessment.

But it made my heart seize.

I forced myself to slow down. Breathe. Count in seconds. Move with intention, not panic.

"Bloody brilliant," I muttered aloud through clenched teeth, the syllables betraying the creeping West Country burr I hadn’t heard in years. It always slipped out when I was close to unravelling. A hand-me-down cadence from our mother, buried under years of neutral Aussie polish, now rising unbidden like an old scar resurfacing under pressure.

I dodged a trolley pushed by an elderly man with comical determination, its plastic wheels shrieking as they resisted the polished floor. The screech knifed through my nerves. I bit back an urge to snap and instead curved away from his path, tightening the grip on my pack.

A glossy advertising screen loomed suddenly beside me, its surface so polished I caught an accidental glimpse of my own reflection—and recoiled.

I looked ill.

Gaunt. Eyes ringed with grey, mouth drawn into a line so thin it barely existed. My skin was several shades paler than usual, a greasy sheen glistening along my temple and the ridge of my nose. I barely recognised the face that stared back. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It was exposure. I looked like someone who’d been running too long and was about to collapse from the weight of the lies on his back.

And maybe I was.

The terminal pressed in tighter with every step. The lofty ceilings and strategically open spaces—once intended to convey architectural calm—now felt cavernous, oppressive. The high, sun-drenched windows let in shafts of harsh golden light that had the sharpness of interrogation spotlights. It all felt too open. Too visible. Nowhere to hide.

And then there were the sounds.

Laughter from behind—a sharp, high-pitched burst that made me flinch. The sudden roll of a suitcase as its owner picked up speed. A squeaky shoe. A woman sneezing. Every ordinary sound now warped into something jagged and ominous. Even the clink of coffee cups from a nearby kiosk sounded like a countdown timer.

I imagined her stepping from behind a pillar.

I imagined the sharp sting of her voice calling my name.

I imagined the portal opening right in the centre of the airport, the wrongness of it pouring out like blood from a fresh wound.

Focus. I dug my fingernails into my palms until I felt a flush of pain. Real, grounding pain. Anchor points. Small reminders that I still had control—however fragile that might be. The rough press of my backpack against my spine. The rigid corner of my phone in my pocket. The burn in my calves from too much tension, too little rest.

I didn’t know what waited for me at Elizabeth Station.

But I knew this: I couldn’t stay here. Not another second.

The longer I remained in this brightly lit cage of movement and noise, the more likely it became that something—or someone—would find me. I could feel the net tightening with every passing moment. Not physically, not yet, but in that intangible way the air seems to change when you’re being watched. When you’re one wrong breath away from becoming noticed.

I needed a plan.

I needed to get out.

And I needed it now.

Up ahead, a series of bold directional signs materialised like lifelines emerging from the visual chaos. Their clean, stylised lettering and crisp iconography stood in stark contrast to the surrounding blur of bodies and motion, promising escape in the form of ground transport. The Adelaide Metro logo—comfortably familiar in its blue and white palette—beckoned with bureaucratic certainty, an invitation to flee disguised as civic infrastructure.

Bus to Adelaide City: 17 minutes. Departures every 20.

That wasn’t good enough. I needed to move faster than timetables and public transport regulations could accommodate. But for now, the bus was my only option. It represented motion. Distance. Delay. The very things that might keep me alive just long enough to understand what I’d gotten myself into.

A small voice—the ever-unwelcome ambassador of reason—murmured quietly at the back of my mind, urging caution. Perhaps I was catastrophically overreacting. Perhaps the woman, furious and rightfully alarmed, had remained on the aircraft, now embroiled in a long, tedious conversation with an overworked flight attendant about airline liability and checked luggage policies. Perhaps I’d imagined the worst.

But I couldn’t afford to believe that voice. Not now. Not after that look.

That sharp, unblinking gaze of hers had cut straight through me like a surgical blade. The flat, clinical suspicion in her voice when she asked about the missing backpack. The way confusion had curdled so quickly into clarity, into certainty. She hadn’t been making a general enquiry. She’d been testing me, watching to see how I would respond, watching for the flinch.

And now I was running.

I threw a furtive glance over my shoulder, trying my best to appear casual—just another traveller separated from a friend, or perhaps checking for a family member lagging behind with duty-free shopping. A perfectly innocent gesture.

But my heart convulsed violently in my chest as I caught a flicker of something—movement, unmistakably hers. A flash of dark hair pulled tightly back into that purposeful ponytail. The precise alignment of her shoulders as she moved through crowds with that brisk, businesslike gait. She had moved like that on the plane, with a predator’s economy of motion.

And then she was gone.

Swallowed whole by the tide of humanity flooding the terminal.

Was it her? A trick of the light? A phantom projected by a brain now hardwired for fear?

It didn’t matter. The effect was the same.

My pulse skyrocketed. My fingers twitched on the backpack strap, adjusting it reflexively even though it sat perfectly in place. The comforting weight of the pack had twisted into something accusatory—every gram a reminder of what I’d taken, of what I’d hidden.

My breathing quickened, became shallower, thinner. I could feel it catching in my chest, tight and unnatural, the way air gets when it isn’t quite air anymore. The terminal’s reconditioned atmosphere felt sterile, artificial—like breathing inside a sealed museum exhibit. I needed to get outside. Or anywhere else.

I scanned frantically for somewhere—anywhere—I could stop, just for a moment. Just to regroup, to exhale, to think. But every available space seemed designed specifically to expose me. Restrooms? Enclosed, claustrophobic, and easily cornered. Cafés? Terribly public. A sitting duck with overpriced coffee and too many eyes. Waiting areas? Bleachers for spectators. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to breathe.

There were no sanctuaries here. Not in this gleaming machine of glass and concrete. Every surface reflected. Every space was a stage.

And somewhere in that crowd, she might be watching.

Not moving yet.

Just watching.

I pushed on, deeper into the terminal, footsteps faster than before, no longer walking so much as being drawn forward by the sheer force of necessity. The psychological gravity of escape was irreversible now. There could be no pause, no moment of rest, no comforting illusions of safety.

Every breath I took tasted like guilt and urgency. Every step forward felt heavier than the last.

But there was no other direction left to go.

The teeming crowd ebbed and flowed around me like a restless tide, a disorienting mass of unfamiliar faces, overlapping voices, and ceaseless motion that seemed to blur into a single, oppressive force pressing in from all sides. The merciless January heat had driven everyone indoors, transforming Adelaide Airport’s ordinarily spacious terminal into a heaving, claustrophobic crucible of sweaty agitation and frayed tempers.

I kept my head lowered with deliberate precision, every ounce of my attention laser-focused on the labyrinthine corridors unfurling ahead. I moved as though rehearsing a carefully choreographed routine—steps too measured, shoulders held too tight—conscious of every single movement, yet determined to appear unconscious of everything.

And then I saw her.

My heart didn’t so much skip a beat as shudder and collapse entirely. She was emerging from the baggage claim area with all the subtlety of a tactical strike—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, her sharp gaze slicing through the surging human tide with mechanical efficiency. She wasn’t scanning for familiar faces. She was hunting.

Her eyes moved like twin tracking systems, sweeping side to side, dissecting the crowd with cold, clinical purpose.

She hadn’t given up.

She hadn't let it go.

And she was moving fast.

For the briefest, paralysed moment, my body ceased to belong to me. I stood stock still, a human target outlined against the terminal’s blinding strip lighting, my thoughts thudding uselessly inside my skull like birds trapped behind glass.

Then instinct took control.

I ducked—head down, limbs moving before my brain had even issued the order—and slipped sharply left, placing a loud, happy family between us like a piece of living architecture. They were exactly what I needed: sun-reddened, loud, chaotic. Children squealing, grandparents arguing over parking validation, luggage stacked higher than was reasonable. The perfect distraction.

I crouched beside them, pretending to fiddle with a non-existent shoelace, my fingers working blindly at the phantom knot as though my life depended on the neatness of the bow.

Do not look up.

Do not look for her.

Do not even allow your thoughts to shape her unknown name in your mind.

From my peripheral vision—warped by the gleam of polished floor tiles and the erratic flicker of fluorescent lighting—I could just make out the purposeful blur of her figure. She paused. Looked. Assessed.

My heart slammed against my ribs with such force I feared it might rupture something.

She was close. Far too close.

The woman was scanning the area with the precision of a heat-seeking missile, and every nerve in my body screamed that she was about to zero in on me. My muscles coiled beneath my skin, prepared to run if she so much as turned in my direction.

And yet—by some merciful accident or divine sleight of hand—she moved on. Not far. Not fast. But enough.

I took my opportunity. Rose slowly, smoothly, keeping the family between us as a human veil. I merged back into the stream of travellers like a reluctant drop rejoining the current, every motion exaggerated into casualness.

Don’t rush. Don’t turn around. Just blend.

Behind me, I could still hear the distant sound of her voice—frustrated, terse, clipped. Interrogating someone, perhaps. Or cursing the limits of human vision.

But I didn’t look back.

That was mistake number one in every espionage thriller Josh used to binge: never look back.

Rookie error, he’d say, eyes glued to the screen. It’s how they always get caught.

The thought of him—silent, absent, uncharacteristically unreachable—only tightened the ache in my chest. What if this was connected? What if whatever I’d stumbled into had already reached him?

The noise of the terminal surged again, crashing down on me like a rogue wave. The shriek of a nearby child nearly sent me sprawling. A woman dragging an obstinate roller bag behind her cut directly across my path, and I had to sidestep into a clump of giggling university students blocking a walkway as they posed for selfies beside a life-sized kangaroo cutout advertising duty-free Tim Tams.

Each second stretched unbearably long. My senses were no longer simply heightened—they were overloaded. Every face seemed a threat. Every sudden movement, every raised voice, every cough and laugh and sharp gesture tore holes in my already tattered composure.

I turned down a branching corridor at random—no plan, just movement—my mind frantically scanning the overhead signage for anything resembling sanctuary. Nothing helpful presented itself. Just Baggage Reclaim, Domestic Transfers, Arrivals Café.

All impossibly exposed.

I was running out of options.

And still I moved, threading my way through the churning multitudes like a fugitive in his own city, the floor beneath my feet feeling less and less like a path and more like a conveyor belt dragging me, inexorably, toward some fate I wasn’t ready to meet.

The fluorescent lighting buzzed above like an electrical warning.

The signs glared with their bureaucratic finality.

And she could still be anywhere.

Waiting.

Watching.

Close.

A reflexive glance thrown hastily over one shoulder sent fresh, paralysing fear lancing through my overtaxed system. She was there. Moving. Cutting through the crowd with terrifying precision. Her gaze was unwavering, her strides unnervingly smooth, bypassing slower passengers with the fluid, practised efficiency of someone for whom pursuit was second nature. She hadn’t seen me—not yet—but each calculated step brought her closer.

This was no amateur chase. This wasn’t a panicked woman trying to recover a lost bag. This was something else entirely. Tactical. Trained.

She was hunting.

I veered again, sharp left, ducking into a cluster of corporate businessmen who stood in formation outside a café, sipping espresso and comparing sales figures as though the universe beyond quarterly revenue reports simply didn’t exist. Their immaculately pressed suits and designer watches formed a momentary barrier of normality around me, an accidental wall of expensive anonymity. I let their droning conversation about investment returns mask my ragged breathing, the sickly-sweet aroma of roasted coffee and buttery pastries suddenly cloying, almost suffocating in my heightened state.

Keep moving. Keep moving. Keep moving.

My heart thundered in my chest like a runaway engine, adrenaline transforming my limbs into heavy, disconnected objects I could barely command. My legs moved, but each stride felt weighted, each step requiring conscious, unnatural effort. The fluorescent lights above buzzed like hornets, casting everything in a harsh, unforgiving glow that left nowhere to hide and no corner unexposed.

What if she saw me? What if she was close enough now to act?

Would she scream? Point? Shout for security?

Would she calmly walk straight up and demand her bag, accuse me publicly, and trigger a scene that would end in handcuffs?

Would she believe anything I had to say?

Of course not.

I could barely believe myself.

I abruptly peeled away from the cluster of suited men, slipping off to the right this time, changing direction again with mechanical urgency. The bold overhead signage pointing towards Ground Transportation drew my attention like a lifeline. There, maybe. A route out. A way forward.

I moved quickly, though not too quickly, trying to strike that impossible balance between urgency and discretion. My feet carried me down the quieter side corridor, the main thoroughfare falling mercifully away behind me. The hum of distant diesel engines became audible through the walls—a low, throaty murmur that spoke of waiting buses, movement, transit, escape.

The floor changed beneath my feet—still polished terrazzo, but cooler here, less scuffed by the constant churn of foot traffic. The lighting dimmed marginally, shadows cast long and angular by the late afternoon sun slicing through tall, western-facing windows.

And then I saw it.

The bus station. Quiet. Almost serene. Rows of hard plastic seats arranged with clinical uniformity. A handful of passengers stood in loose, tired clusters, guarding their luggage like worn-out sentries. The waiting buses sat in their allocated bays beyond the glass, their hulking forms idling like dozing animals, exhaust faintly curling into the heavy summer air.

This should have brought relief. It should have been the answer.

But instead, dread bloomed in my gut like a spreading bruise.

If I stay here, she’ll find me.

The certainty hit me like a sucker punch. The waiting area wasn’t a sanctuary—it was a trap. Static. Predictable. Exactly where someone would go to cut off an escape. If she even suspected I might flee the airport, this would be the most logical place to intercept me. I’d be waiting on a timed schedule, vulnerable and exposed, a sitting duck boxed in by timetables and bolted seats.

A glance toward the row of passengers confirmed it—every face now looked vaguely hostile, every unmoving figure a possible spotter. Were any of them watching me? Waiting for me to walk through those automatic doors?

My breath caught sharply in my throat, thick and rasping. My chest tightened painfully, and I could feel the sweat beading down the back of my neck, running along my spine in slow, miserable rivulets. My hand hovered near the door, then pulled away as if burned.

No.

I turned sharply—too sharply—and strode back the way I came, my retreat rapid but carefully measured. It felt like tearing off a bandage from freshly wounded flesh—violent and necessary. I didn’t even care if she saw me change direction. I just needed to be away from that place. Now.

The return to the main concourse hit like a wave—noise, bodies, heat. The low roar of a thousand conversations, the mechanical whining of suitcase wheels, the blast of dry air conditioning clashing with sweat-slicked skin. It enveloped me, swallowed me. And it somehow made me feel safer.

Movement was safer. Static was death.

I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t have a plan. But that didn’t matter.

As long as I was moving, she couldn’t catch me.

The crowd surged around me again, pressing in from all sides—commuters, tourists, families, crying children, business travellers barking into phones. The artificial cool of the terminal was fast losing its battle with the heat and stress of the day. The scent of fast food mingled with perfume, body odour, and diesel fumes. It was nauseating, dizzying—but also useful.

Chaos was cover.

I slipped through the crowd like a current cutting through surf, shoulders brushing strangers, eyes flitting from one exit sign to the next. Each directional arrow became a potential salvation. My heart beat an unrelenting rhythm in my ears. The air felt thicker now, heavier, my lungs straining with each shallow breath.

Don’t stop.

Don’t think.

Don’t turn back.

I was the hunted.

And every moment I spent inside this terminal brought me closer to being caught.

But instinct—raw, unfiltered, and utterly overpowering—overruled all logic. Despite every internal warning to keep moving forward, to stay inconspicuous, I felt that unmistakable pressure on the back of my neck. That primal certainty. The suffocating knowledge that I was being watched. Not passively observed—hunted. A cold, precise gaze threaded through the crowd like a sharpened needle seeking flesh.

And I couldn’t help myself.

I looked back.

Just a glance—nothing more than a flicker of movement across my shoulder. But it was enough.

There she was.

Emerging like a nightmare from the writhing crush of travellers, eyes hard and unflinching. The moment our gazes met, it was like an electrical circuit had snapped closed—tight, sparking, final. No ambiguity. No misunderstanding.

She’d seen me.

Not just seen me, but recognised me. That expression—steeled, unyielding—spoke of resolution, of intent. There was no confusion in her face now. No hesitation. Whatever tolerance or doubt she might have harboured had burned away completely. All that remained was certainty.

And pursuit.

My lungs seized. My heart lurched. My stride faltered just for a second—just long enough to register the shift from abstract paranoia into undeniable reality. Then instinct took over.

I bolted.

There was no more point pretending. No more subtlety. The chase was real now. Official. And I was losing time.

I cut sharply left, nearly colliding with an elderly couple struggling with an entire wardrobe’s worth of luggage strapped in layers across a series of wobbling trolleys. Their startled cries barely registered above the blood-pounding roar in my ears.

Everything had gone tunnelled.

The crowd became an indistinct sea of obstacles and noise. Faces became meaningless masks—blurred edges, smeared colours. Words and voices melted into white noise. The hum of the terminal, once oppressive, now faded into nothingness beneath the heavy thudding of my own pulse.

She was behind me—I knew she was behind me. I didn’t need to look again. I could feel her presence like a blade between my shoulders, closing in. Measured. Relentless.

I spun around a wide structural column, briefly breaking her line of sight. My eyes darted upward, frantically scanning the overhead signs. My pulse spiked when I spotted it—bold, clear, capitalised:

TAXI RANK →

Salvation.

Without hesitation, I veered diagonally across the flow of pedestrian traffic, cutting through the press of bodies with sharp, urgent angles. I felt the impact of shoulders, briefcases, rolling suitcases crashing into mine as I forced a new path forward, ignoring the rising wave of angry mutters and incredulous stares in my wake.

"Oi! Watch where you're bloody going!" someone snapped, voice tight with indignation.

A businessman, suited immaculately in charcoal and burgundy, glared at me over the rim of his tortoiseshell glasses, clutching his tablet like a shield. I caught a glimpse of his polished shoes before brushing past him without pause.

"Terribly sorry," I muttered breathlessly, though the words were little more than vapour dissolving into the surrounding din.

Behind me, more voices rose—complaints, scoldings, snatches of indignant commentary. Someone shouted something indistinct but angry. Another pair of hands tried to block my path, but I was already weaving away, ducking beneath an outstretched arm, evading a toddler’s pram by mere centimetres.

I was burning bridges as I ran. Every interaction, every shoulder shoved, every toe stepped on drew attention I couldn’t afford. But it was too late to worry about subtlety now. The only thing that mattered was the illuminated EXIT sign glowing ahead like a divine promise.

The automatic doors opened with a whispering hiss, releasing a blast of harsh summer heat into the artificially cooled terminal. It hit me like an open oven—dry, heavy, abrasive. Adelaide in January had never felt so unforgiving. Sweat bloomed again across my neck and back, clothes already clinging uncomfortably to my frame.

And yet, the stifling heat barely registered. My entire focus locked on the final line of taxis just ahead, like lifeboats bobbing at the edge of a burning ship. Salvation, idling in petrol and impatience.

Just a few more steps.

But I risked one final glance.

I shouldn’t have.

She was there. Not far behind. Still moving. Still locked onto me with surgical precision.

Her pace hadn’t faltered. If anything, it had increased—measured, controlled, terrifyingly efficient. She weaved between people without hesitation, a dark shark slicing through a reef of coral-coloured tourists and slow-moving retirees.

And her eyes—

God, her eyes.

Focused. Hardened. The expression of someone who had lost patience with the hunt and was now closing in for the capture.

A fresh burst of raw panic surged through me, adrenaline flooding every fibre of muscle and bone, commanding a single, irrevocable imperative.

Run.

And I did—straight for the line of waiting taxis.

The taxi rank rose into view like an oasis that wasn’t entirely real—so mundane in its mechanics that it felt almost absurd in contrast to the pulse-pounding urgency radiating from every fibre of my being. It unfolded before me in a disorienting blur of mundane activity: weary travellers gratefully loading bags, tired-looking cabbies leaning on doors, engines idling with that low, monotonous hum that usually meant comfort and transition.

But for me, this was no transition.

This was survival.

Sunlight knifed across the glossy windscreens, fractured through chrome bumpers and wing mirrors, scattering violent bursts of light that stabbed at my over-sensitised eyes. The air itself shimmered with heat and petrol fumes, thick with the sour-sweet tang of exhaust, and under any other circumstance, the scene might have been entirely forgettable.

"Need a ride somewhere, mate?" a driver called out lazily, barely lifting his head as he leaned against his cab, arm slung over the doorframe. His faded company shirt was sweat-darkened beneath the arms, and his wide frame slouched as though gravity had given up trying to keep him vertical.

"Yes—absolutely," I choked out. My voice cracked as I lunged for the rear passenger door, yanking it open with such force that the hinges groaned in protest. I slid into the seat in one panicked motion, the vinyl upholstery slick and cold against the back of my soaked shirt, the cab’s interior steeped in the synthetic sweetness of a budget pine air freshener swaying from the mirror.

"Where to?" he asked without even looking, settling into his own seat with the mechanical slowness of a man whose days were dictated by fares and fatigue. His nonchalance felt like a miracle. Either he hadn’t noticed my sweating, wide-eyed panic—or he simply didn’t care.

"Elizabeth train station," I blurted, breathless and shaking, my fingers fumbling uselessly at the seatbelt as if it were some complex puzzle box rather than a simple buckle-and-clip. The taxi’s engine purred like a loyal guard dog finally roused into motion, and then—

Freedom.

Just as the doors to the terminal hissed open behind us.

I turned instinctively. A mistake.

There she was.

She stepped out into the oppressive wall of South Australian heat like a figure from an unfinished nightmare, her silhouette backlit by the burning sun. Her hair, now dampened with sweat, clung to her temples, and her dark eyes—shaded but unmistakably alert—swept across the rank with surgical efficiency.

And then they found me.

Our eyes locked through the tinted glass. Time fractured.

There was no shout, no dramatic sprint—just the stillness of tension strung so tightly it bordered on snapping. Her face was carved from fury and something else—something colder. Deeper. The expression of someone who had almost succeeded, who had come within reach of something important, only to have it snatched away at the last second.

Her right hand twitched at her side. A twitch most people wouldn’t have noticed. But I did. Because it wasn’t an idle movement. It was a reflex—muscle memory, perhaps. The ghost of restraint. As if she’d come within a heartbeat of grabbing me.

I didn’t breathe until the taxi began to roll forward.

The cab pulled smoothly away from the kerb, merging into the stream of waiting vehicles with the detached efficiency of a system functioning exactly as designed. The physical distance between us widened in tangible, undeniable increments—meters, then dozens, then more.

But the space between us didn’t widen. Not in the way I needed it to. Her gaze didn’t falter, didn’t drop. She tracked me like a sniper through the glass, her figure growing smaller but her presence only tightening—like some terrible invisible wire being pulled further taut with each passing moment.

It wasn’t over.

It wasn’t even close.

I collapsed against the seat, the tension in my spine releasing only partially. My limbs were leaden, my heart still hammering a panicked tattoo against the inside of my chest. The airport receded behind us, its steel-and-glass structure glittering with indifference under the punishing sunlight, looking less like a civic monument now and more like the cold shell of a battlefield I’d narrowly escaped.

The driver chuckled, voice low and wry. "Blimey. She looked like she was about to rip someone’s bloody head off."

I flinched involuntarily at his words, my entire body coiling as if he’d reached in and twisted something deep within me. I met his eyes briefly in the rear-view mirror—clear, observant. Curious. Had he seen everything? Had he understood?

He smirked a little, but it was the tired smirk of someone entertained by the world’s chaos rather than genuinely invested in it.

I tried to muster a smile, but it came out wrong—tight, brittle. My voice barely surfaced. "Yes. Something rather like that, I'm afraid."

I turned away, pressing my head lightly against the smudged window, watching the blurred edges of the airport dissolve into the suburban sprawl of outer Adelaide. Beyond the quiet hum of the taxi’s engine and the gentle creak of its ageing suspension, there was no sound—only the rhythmic whisper of tyres across tarmac, lulling, repetitive.

And yet I couldn’t shake the lingering pressure at my throat. The feeling of being watched hadn't left—it had simply shifted. She was gone, yes. For now. But she hadn’t stopped.

People like her didn’t stop.

Ahead lay Elizabeth train station, and with it, whatever cryptic problem Josh had dragged me into—whatever awaited in the Northern suburbs with their faded brick shopping centres, vacant-eyed commuters, and abandoned industrial parks still quietly decaying behind razor-wire fences.

But behind me?

Behind me stood a woman with the kind of gaze that didn’t forgive. Didn’t forget.

And I knew—I knew—she wasn’t finished with me yet.